


Dominion

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Community: trope_bingo, Gender or Sex Swap, Mech Preg, Non Consensual, Other, Sticky Sex, dark-bingo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:31:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now a prisoner of Crystal City, Deadlock finds they want him to pay for his life…as a carrier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Successful?” Dai Atlas cocked his helm at Triage.

The white and red medic nodded. “He has a strong spark, as well. One of the strongest we’ve seen.”

“He’ll breed well, then?”

“Definitely.” Triage offered the datapad. Dai Atlas was no medic, but he’d overseen this procedure enough times that he knew how to read the basic scans.  This stranger, whom Wing had ‘rescued’, had taken well to the procedure. They’d refined it so much from their original, working off of Jhiaxus’s old experiments, to a streamlined, safe procedure. 

He handed the datapad back. “Good.”  He had been angry at Wing, at first, for contaminating their city with the newcomer, until this idea had hit him.  This Deadlock would pay for their hospitality, and for all the lives taken under that loathsome Decepticon badge,  by bringing forth life for them.  It would be the first in centuries, all of them having taken their turn in the carrier protocols aeons ago.  “It will be good to have younglings in the city again,” he said.

“It will,” Triage answered.  “It’s been a long time. I had to review the sparking protocol manuals.” 

Dai Atlas looked over at the berth, where the mech lay, the gestation chamber installed in his systems, simply waiting to be wakened.  “The entire city will celebrate.”

[***]

“What?” Deadlock couldn’t keep the anger from his voice. “You did _what_ to me?” It wasn’t just anger, there was something roiling underneath it, fear, revulsion, a sort of shuddering horror.

“It’s not what we did,” Wing said, placidly. “We rebuilt you, gave you another chance.  This is just a way you can give us a chance at life, too.”

“You can’t be serious.” This was maybe some sort of hallucination.  What happened to all that ‘I don’t need to know you to mean you no harm’ slag?

Wing cocked his head. “Why not?  It’s little enough to ask, isn’t it?  And I promise you, it’s far from painless. I found my time as a carrier to be….rather enjoyable.”

“Enjoyable? I don’t fraggin’ care if it’s enjoyable or not. You had no right to do this!”  His hand trembled, rubbing the weld-scar.

“And you Decepticons had no right for any number of things you’ve done.”  Wing frowned, frustrated. “I had to fight for you to have them repair you at all.  This was a compromise and I promise you, it won’t be bad.”

“You want…you’ve turned me into some abomination.”

“Not abomination. Everyone in the city has undergone the procedure. Everyone knows what you’re going through.”

“Going through. I don’t even know what I’m going through.”

“Oh,” Wing said, settling down across from the berth. “First, the gestation chamber—that’s the sort of weight you feel under your spark chamber—must be filled with transfluid. Then the sire will spark you. The budling will require constant nourishment—that’s what the gestation chamber is for.  And once it is ready, it will be removed and transferred to a mechling frame.” 

“Once.”

“It only takes a decacycle,” Wing said. “We’ve considerably advanced the procedure, streamlining it over the ages.” 

“Only.” Deadlock glowered. 

“Deadlock. Please. Give us a chance. Give yourself a chance.”

He snorted. “Not sure I have much choice.”

That was true, Wing thought, but he smiled over that thought. “Please. We will all do our best to make it enjoyable for you. And honestly, when was the last time an entire city wanted nothing but for you to be happy?”

He was mad. Mad. He had to be.  Either that or the entire city was.  Deadlock felt himself thrashing, helplessly, against the tight rules of this underground city, that seemed so helpful and kind—every face he’d seen had been either gleaming with a smile or creased with concern for his well-being, but it rang false, like the tone from a cracked bell.

[***]

He glowered, as Wing bent over, putting the finishing touches on some paint.  Wing cocked his head, studying the effect of the paint. “This will mark you as the carrier,” he said.

Great. Everyone would know. It was abhorrent. He was some latter day victim of Jhiaxus’s experiments. He remembered hearing about them, remembered enough that the one time Jhiaxus had done this it had driven the mech insane.

 He felt sick. Maybe that’s what insanity felt like.

“Now,” Wing said. “Axe has agreed to help with the filling. You’ll like him. He’s quite gentle.”

“Don’t care.”                                                                             

“Also,” Wing said, “I figured you might be, well, shy.  Axe will help fill your tank rather quickly.” 

The thought stirred something dark in him, some mix of disgust and arousal. “I don’t think,” he said, acidly, “that ‘shy’ is the fraggin’ problem.” 

Wing put the brush down, his mouth in that elegant frown, as though Deadlockwas somehow disappointing him. “Really, Deadlock.  It’s hardly a bad thing. You’re bringing life to the city, a city that has welcomed you, saved your life.  All we ask in return—“

“In return,” Deadlock snapped, “Is to be violated, body and will. Over and over again. Foster some… _thing_ growing inside me like a parasite.”

“It is not,” Wing said, rising, even the frown disappearing, his voice cooling, “a parasite. And you’re proving every stereotype they have of your kind to be true, Deadlock. I argued for you. I _fought_ for you. If I hadn’t interceded, they would have let you die, or worse, fallen prey to the slavers.” His optics, hard zircons, softened. “Please.  What we’re offering is better than that. Surely you see that.”

He couldn’t see it, but he knew, already, this wasn’t an argument he could win. He was outnumbered, outmaneuvered. He: Deadlock who hadn’t lost a battle in centuries.  He slumped in a defeat he hadn’t known for ages.

“Sit up straight, Deadlock,” Wing said, almost automatically. “You’re smearing the paint.”

And Primus help him, he sat up.

[***]

“This will help,” Wing said, appearing at his side.  He could see the dais in front of him, the ring of mechs, it seemed like the whole city, arrayed to watch, as though this were a celebration, a festival. 

“What is it?” He scowled at the white cup, the frothy liquid in it.

“Just something to help you relax,” Wing said, stroking a soothing hand over Deadlock’s shoulder.  “I was thinking, and you’re right. This could be…intimidating to a newcomer.”

Relax. He didn’t want to relax. He wanted to wake up and find himself back on Turmoil’s ship, or the pod landed in a desert waste.  Any place any time where he was still himself.  He didn’t want the drink, but he took it, hoping it would dull some of the horror.

It was…as repugnant as he had imagined. He’d been taken enough by Turmoil, in his time under the larger Decepticon’s command. Mass and force and leverage meant things even he couldn’t defy, just as he couldn’t defy the massive city.  But he’d learned, years ago, how to shut himself off, shut down, and just let Turmoil finish his rutting. He convinced himself that his blank acquiescence robbed Turmoil of part of the pleasure he’d intended, that of bringing Deadlock to heel, showing him shame.

He learned shame here, though, on the raised platform. There was something more horrible about the trappings of honor and pleasure about this than the dark violations of Turmoil’s ship.  They honestly thought he would enjoy it, that he _should_ enjoy it.

He groaned, Axe laboring above him, the massive spike dragging over the valve’s fine lining.  He’d thought Turmoil’s abuse had dulled him to response, but something about the procedure had altered his node calibrations, and he felt, as the ridged spike pumped against him, shuddering, repulsive waves of pleasure.  Deadlock’s hands curled in helpless claws, aware of the witnesses, smiling benignly down at them. 

Maybe it was the drink, dulling his control, but he found himself unable to fight, his limbs heavy and languorous, his vocalizer dulled to a soft moan.

“That’s the way, lad,” Axe said. “Let it happen.”

I have no choice, Deadlock wanted to scream, but all that came out was another gentle sound, and his hand, that had moved to try to thrust the mech off him, ended up as a blunt stroke over the broad panel of armor. 

I don’t, he thought, feebly, the words forming as though through a bubbling grey fog. I don't want this. 

The spike surged against him and he could feel the sweet rise of friction, cloying, nauseating, even as it propelled him toward overload.  

He cried out, a sound of horror and pleasure combined, as Axe slammed in one last time and he felt the powerful release of fluid, pumping through his valve, and then, a strange, uncomfortable swirling in his abdominal cavity, the transfluid suctioned up through him. He could feel its scalding path, blazing a line inside him, piercing his body to a strange, fluid fullness below his spark chamber. 

His entire body was rigid, his hands claws in Axe's shoulder, clinging to what seemed to be the only solid and stable thing in the world.  

"Good," Axe rumbled, stroking a hand over his helm, chucking him gently under the chin. "Strong one, you are.  You'll breed strong and true." 

Deadlock could do nothing, in his abjection and nausea, but nod, as though crushed under repeating waves of despair. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> noncon, dark, sparksex, impregnation, a continuation for trope-bingo's sake, trope being, of course, omegaverse.

Deadlock felt, the next morning, sick in a way that went beyond the aches in his body, the strange, fluid fullness in his chassis. He felt...scared. Scared for the first time in his life. Even in the gutters, he’d never been scared: just varying levels of angry. There, he’d had some control: there was someone he could steal from, some place he could find, if only temporarily, safety.  

Here?

There was no safety. There was no control. They owned him, mastered him, inside and out.  They knew it, and he knew it.

He flinched back at the cool palm on his crest, optics snapping open to see Wing’s face, comported in lines of worry. “I brought,” Wing said, softly, “some nutrient fuel.”

Deadlock snarled. “Had enough of your drinks.”  It had to have been that concoction--whatever it was--that had befuddled him so much last night. It had to be some drug, some cyberchemical. It had felt like a drug, the way Syk sucked away your sense of time and place, extending and contracting it like irregular sines, crossing wires, making pleasure into pain and pain pleasure.

“Deadlock. You need the fuel.”

Deadlock glowered, pushing back on the berth, folding his arms over his chassis, the same stonewall face that had worn even Turmoil down, till the larger mech turned away in frustrated disgust.

“Deadlock.” And this time the tone sounded even softer, more concerned. Not that Deadlock bought any of it. “If you don’t, they will force you.”  

“They.”

Wing nodded. “They.”

“Oh, so because you wouldn’t shove an energon cath in my fuel port, I’m supposed to think you’re better than they are?”

“I’m not better than they are, Deadlock. It is just...it’s not my role.” He looked down at the glass and the silvery lavender liquid in it, almost sadly.

"Role." Like this was all some big play or something.  

"Yes," Wing said. "Role.  We all have parts to play. Axe. Dai Atlas, Me.  And you? Yours is the most important part."  He seemed to glow at that, as though being violated, forced into this something-worse-than-slavery was some honor.

"I don't want to be important." Or, at least, not in this. He did want to be important, in the war, where he belonged. He wanted to make a difference, win the war, make a better future.  He'd wanted no one to have to suffer what he'd endured.  He wanted to be part of the solution.

Not this.  This was not his idea of a better future.  It was like the functionists all over again.

"Everyone wants to be important, Deadlock. Everyone wants their life to have meaning." A hand stroked over Deadlock's shoulder, as if he were merely being fractious, needing soothing.

"Meaning I make myself," Deadlock snarled, pulling away from the jet's touch. He didn't need to be comforted.  

"We are a social species.  We can't work in isolation. We need others, and others need us."

"I need no one."

"You do, now at least.  Because I understand," and it was clear Wing was struggling with something, trying to understand Deadlock's position.  If only Deadlock cared. "how unsettling this is."

"Unsettling?" Anger and sarcasm formed two tight plies in his voice at the understatement.

"Deadlock," and Wing's voice had a waning patience, now, "I'm trying to help. As much as I can." The gold optics softened. "Please, if there's anything you need?"

"You can't give me what I need."  Freedom, or at least his body back. The words slapped hard against Wing: he could almost see them land, like blows.  He was glad they hurt.  Because he knew, somehow, deep in his fuel lines, that even if they could undo this procedure, even if they could remove these modifications, these changes they'd done to him, if they took out every last bit of it, it wouldn't be like it was before. They could take their components away, but it wouldn't restore him. Something had been lost, something that wasn't a wire or socket, something intangible and, he realized now, ineffably fragile.

Wing sighed, resignation or frustration, Deadlock couldn't tell, and didn't care. "Please." He held forth the glass again. "Right now, you need this."

He didn't. He didn't need anything, didn't want anything, that they had to give.  But he felt a hollowness in his tank, a too-familiar hunger from those days in the gutters.  

Deadlock scowled, but took the glass, throwing back a mouthful.  It was tart and sweet, tingling over his glossa, rich and almost luscious, almost too much.  Just a sip, no more, just enough to take the edge off the hunger. And this time, he pushed his awareness out, warily. He wasn't going to get duped by some drink again.  

"Thank you," Wing said, and there was earnest relief in his voice. As though Deadlock had done it for him.

He hadn't.  He was going to escape, to leave this place, but to do that, he needed his strength, and a plan.

[***]

They came for him, later, two larger mechs, who dwarfed Wing, each carrying the same long sword on their backs.  And they brought the medic, Triage, who fussed his way over Deadlock's frame, while Deadlock held himself rigid and still.

Wing fluttered nearby, as though they were judging him, somehow, by Deadlock's condition.  "He is well," Wing insisted.

"Fine," Triage said, his optics bent on his mediscanner. "Just checking the tank fullness, and general constitution." He looked up. "Dai Atlas wants to spark him tonight."

Deadlock was lying down, but somehow, this made the floor seem to drop, his tank twisting around a heavy grey knot of dread. "Tonight," he echoed, almost blankly.

"And?" Wing spoke to Triage, as though Deadlock wasn't even in the room. Why not, Deadlock thought, the liquid in his tank seeming to sour.  He wasn't needed. Just his body.  

Triage nodded. “He’s ready.”

No, I’m not, Deadlock thought. How could anyone be ready for this? Ever? The takeover of their body, their will, their very confidence in who they are?  

But he knew the protest wouldn’t do any good. He wasn’t a person to them. Just a thing, a life force they could use.

Been through worse, he told himself.  No one even cared if you died in the gutters, Deadlock.  

But it didn’t work, that clever rationalization.  Because even then, back then, he’d had the ability to go where he wanted.  He had some control, however small.

It seemed huge, now.

“I’m also right here,” he snarled.

Wing’s hand came to rest on his arm. “I know. And I know it’s distressing.  But just give it a chance. You know, you might enjoy it. I did.”

Triage gave a final, surveying look over Deadlock’s frame, somehow managing to skim over the scowl, the face.  “He won’t enjoy anything. Just look at him.” There seemed a world of judgment in the tone, and all Deadlock could do, as Triage unhooked the mediscannerer from the dataport, was give an impotent scowl.

[***]

The two larger mechs took charge afterward, hauling Deadlock to his feet, with a strange sort of care, as though handling a precious object.

But an object nonetheless.

And they called themselves knights, but thugs or heavies, they were all the same, really.  Knight just seemed an awfully genteel, almost precious, moniker for something that took charge of another mech and strapped him to a berth. Arms, legs, spread and pinioned--Deadlock was more helpless than he’d ever been. He’d tried to fight, tired of lying there, passive, oppressed by the horror of their control over his body, over him.

But his struggles were caught in the larger hands, his obscenities pattering without damage on impassive audio receptors. The only comment all his howling, thrashing protests got was a murmured, almost amused ‘Spirited,’ from one of the knights

Wing hovered by, obviously wanting to be helpful but thankfully--as far as Deadlock was concerned--at a loss how to do it.

He was about to ask Wing how this happened, but he figured he’d find out all too soon enough.  

And he was right: barely a klik later, the door slid open with a plush sound, the massive mech blocking the doorway.  

“He is ready.” A question, from one who didn't often ask questions.

Wing rose from where he’d perched himself on a table’s edge. “He is.”

Deadlock swore, just one word, and then another, and then more; a veritable torrent of profanity and filth and insult pouring from his vocalizer.  He struggled against the bonds, knowing how useless it all was, feeling the motion damped, almost laughable. He knew, with a sick certainty, that if he were watching it, watching some Autobot prisoner pinioned like this, he would have laughed.

It almost surprised him that they didn’t.

Dai Atlas approached, and finally the torrent of vile words wore itself out, Deadlock running out of words to express his anger, his helplessness, his hate, leaving him wrung out and heaving.

“Full of hate,” Dai Atlas said, with a sort of ‘tsk’ in his voice. “Like all your kind.”  He reached forward, thumbs finding the armor releases under Deadlock’s chassis, flicking them open.  It wasn’t done casually--there was an awareness of the weight

of the moment, but it was without reverence, without respect, without any acknowledgement that he was treading on other’s ground.

Deadlock tried, and failed, to worm away, as the cold air struck his spark chamber. It didn’t hurt, but it felt...invasive, vulnerable. He didn’t like either option.  

Dai Atlas studied the spark chamber, nested in the cables and mechanisms of Deadlock’s powerframe, his own armor locks disengaging with sharp, efficient clicks.  Deadlock didn’t know if he preferred this to Axe’s attempts to talk with him, to keep some fiction on both parts that this was wanted, by either of them.

He was on the verge of hissing an insult at Dai Atlas when he felt a sudden, agonizing stab of pain, greenish and hot and slicing through his awareness like a laser scalpel. The insult died into a garble of pain, his optics craning down, in vain, over his opened chassis.  

There was a whirring sound, more heat, and the sour smell of metal and char and then a flash of pain so bright it blinded him, sucking the air from his cooling system.  HIs spark seemed to burn with cold, a liquid, etching acid feeling, worse than any pain he’d felt before.

The room seemed to spin, and he struggled against his bonds again, this time, almost as if to make sure he was still secure, that the world wasn’t tearing itself apart before him. His optical feed blurred, crackling into snow, his audio feed dropping to pick only the bass buzz of undertones. He felt like he was falling, realizing from distant memory of combat injury that he was on the brink of fadeout. And he resisted, or tried to, clawing to stay aware, even despite the fact of his violation, despite the fact that unconsciousness would have meant, at least partially, escape. 

Temporary escape though, and false, and he would have neither. 

“Wing.” Dai Atlas’s voice burned over Deadlock’s audio channel, sharp with authority. Deadlock could hear some higher-timbred noise, assent, concern, before he felt a touch on his helm, gentle at first, as though afraid of hurting him, turning his head to the side.

There was a pressure against his mouthplates, and he hadn’t realized until then he’d been gritting his dentae.  He felt warm metal, pushing against his mouthplates--a finger, he thought, or a fuel feed.  A sound, and a stroke over his helm and he could taste a little droplet of the same tart fuel Wing had pressed on him earlier.

That had been safe. Relatively. It hadn’t blurred his mind, or dulled his thinking, and he remembered how it had tingled over his sensor net, strong and alive.  He sucked at the fuel feed, drawing more of it in, fighting the nauseating waves of pain and blackness from the thing penetrating his spark wall.  He could smell Wing, also, the sweet ozone and clean oil scent of him, comforting just as an anchor point, something he knew, some one he knew.  Something familiar if not safe.

His mouth worked at the fuel feed, taking more of the fluid, and its liquid strength.  He could feel it revitalizing him, restoring him, pulling him from the brink of fadeout.  His mouth latched on, finding a shape to the nozzle, some strange thing they used here, suckling noisily. Part of him, the only part capable of conscious thought, hoped the sound repulsed Dai Atlas. It was petty and childish, but it was all the resistance he could manage as he drew in the sustenance, back to life where the Circle’s leader had his chest opened, a drilling cable linking their two spark chambers, suddenly bursting with a light so bright it hurt.

And then the painful brightness faded, ebbed, leaving Deadlock feeling almost scalded, all over, his olfactory sensors clogged with a scorched sort of smell, overriding the previous sweetness of Wing’s body. His optical feed restarted, blackness widening to static fuzz before resolving into image.

Image.  Wing’s pelvic armor, hatch opened, and a white and red length between them.

Deadlock gagged, suddenly, snapping his head back, the head of Wing’s spike falling out of his mouth which was pulled in a grimace of revulsion. He could see the surprise and concern in the golden optics, the twisted world where this was kindness, but the worst of it was the memory of the fruit-sweet taste in his mouth, and the echo if it from what he’d drunk earlier this morning.  

It was perverse, obscene, a complete inversion of everything he’d known. 

And it was his world, now, this pain, this inversion of right and wrong, of power and vulnerability. It was his world, one which had just pierced him to the very core. 


End file.
